


Lately that shit ain’t been getting me higher (re-upload)

by ratsauce



Series: Neurodivergent Direction [5]
Category: Harry Styles (Musician), Louis Tomlinson (Musician), One Direction (Band)
Genre: BPD, Borderline Louis, Borderline Personality Disorder, Dissociation, M/M, Mania, Manic Episode, Mental Breakdown, Mental Health Issues, Mental Instability, Sad Louis, depersonalisation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-02
Updated: 2018-09-02
Packaged: 2019-07-05 16:14:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,733
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15867171
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ratsauce/pseuds/ratsauce
Summary: Louis' stuck in a dangerous loop of wanting to do it all and being afraid of failing if he were to try. It takes Harry to sort him out.Otherwise known as 'the one where Louis has bpd (part 2)'





	Lately that shit ain’t been getting me higher (re-upload)

**Author's Note:**

> Title from [Pray by Sam Smith](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hhREiAarjVY)  
>  _TRIGGER WARNING: Please use the tags as a guide! These things can be triggering, please don't put yourself in harms way by reading this. I want you all to be safe._  
>  This is a sort of vent piece for how I’ve been feeling for the last couple of weeks (months?), and also an unofficial way of apologising for my inconsistency in posting. Please bear with me. BIG THINGS ARE COMING THOUGH.  
> Edit: I posted this with an emoji in it and ao3 bugged completely, it wouldn't post over half of the work, so here we go again

Louis has this overwhelming desire to change. Get rid of everything, burn it all to the ground and start fresh. Tear everything down and roll around in the shreds. He needs to do something different, something brand new and shiny. But he doesn’t _want_ to.

The impulse and subsequent fear of the unknown develops over a month or so. At first, it was a barely noticeable _thing_ at the back of Louis’ mind. He’d been doing a block of interviews that had kept him busy for about a month, but when that stopped, he didn’t have anything to do but stay home in London. His days consisted then of watching telly and eating rubbish, and remained like that for two weeks. The first week of it had been great, just being by himself in the house and FaceTime-ing Harry when he could. Fuck, it was _glorious_ not having any pressing obligations. But seeing the others doing things, occupying their time with fulfilling things like promo or touring had made him feel inadequate in a way he hadn’t felt since X-Factor days.

The impulse grew by the start of the third week being home, cutting through his subconscious and nagging him. It became a press to go out and do something, _anything_. He was bored out of his fucking mind. Every day was the same cycle of waking up, eating, and watching films, going back to bed, and maybe speaking to Harry on days he wasn’t too swamped. He called Lottie and convinced her to take him out: they went to lunch, twice. Liam took him to Funky Buddha and got him pissed off his arse the first night he arrived in London, after Louis begged him to. The stayed in to smoke for the other two days Liam was there for, Louis being overly clingy and Liam indulging him for the forty-eight-plus hours they’d been together, before he was off again to continue writing for his album.

After Liam left, Louis was assaulted by a brand new torrent of _loneliness_ in addition to that steadily mounting feeling of worthlessness. It had hit him hard enough that he’d cried after he came home from dropping Liam off at the airport. He sobbed into his pillow pathetically, soiling it with his snot and tears and spit and sweat and he felt stupid, god- He felt so _dumb_.

Everything somehow got worst when, in the middle of heaving, he realised that Harry hadn’t called him at all that night, and when he’d picked up his phone to check the time, he found two messages that made his breath stop.

_22.24_

**_Harold <3_ **

_gonna be out late, don’t wait up_

_love you so much._

An animalistic scream had ripped its way out of Louis’ throat and he chucked his phone across the room, his tears blinding him with the way they came welling up with a renewed vigour.

 _You’re being dramatic, stop it_.

“No, you stop!” Louis yelled at himself, flailing his arms and hitting the mattress under him. Don’t fucking wait up? Not even his own _husband_ has enough time to speak to him, and that made something horrible and ugly climb into his chest and settle there. He grabbed the pillows from under his face and flung them off the bed, sobbing louder over the sound of them hitting things and making them fall to the ground with several crashes.

He’d been near hyperventilating with it, choking on his tears and gasping in breaths he wasn’t even sure he deserved. He’d felt so _cut_ , so deeply wounded that he’d just allowed himself to cry, not even attempting to muffle it the way he normally does.

 

Louis wakes the next morning sore in his back, shoulders and neck. The room is pitch black, the blinds still closed from about three mornings ago when he’d shut them in a rage. He has no idea what time it is, but he doesn’t even get a second to be confused before he’s hit with the same foreboding sense of uselessness, isolation, and, more recently, rejection, from the days prior, but _stronger_. He remembers all of it immediately: Liam leaving, Harry basically telling him that he’s too busy for him, the phone that’s probably smashed to bits in the corner of the room. His heart sinks at the memory.

He doesn’t even know when he’d fallen asleep, but he doesn’t put it pass himself to have passed out from exhaustion.

With a groan, he stretches out in the centre of the bed, wincing at the discomfort in almost all of his joints. He sort of misses the pillows he’d thrown away but he doesn’t even look to see where they had landed, much less go and get them. The clothes he’d had on the night before are twisted wrong around his frame and stuck uncomfortably to his skin with cold sweat, and he manoeuvres himself so he can slide out of them while still lying down. When he’s down to his pants, he wiggles around until he can pull the duvet up and over his head, slithers over to his side of the bed, and curls into himself tightly.

This time when he cries, it’s soft and whimpered pleas for some sort of relief from this. All of it. He wishes he didn’t even have to wake up: every fucking day is the same shit feeling and he’s so tired of it.

 

What could be _hours_ passes by and he’s successfully managed not to move from his position, curled with his head tucked close to his knees and his hands wrapped around his legs. He’s managed to work himself into a right state, the tears never really stopping. There’s this constant loop of _notenoughnotenoughnotenough_ going through his head, forcing him to stay right where he is every time he considers getting up and showering, looking for his phone doing _anything_. The crying has made him beyond exhausted, but every time his eyes slip shut so he can get some sleep, he’s jolted back awake by images of his family and friends leaving him, cursing him out for being _too much_.

He only moves when his grumbling stomach is too much to ignore, however much later. He doesn’t _want_ to eat, but Harry wouldn’t want him going the whole day without getting something into his stomach.

At the first thought of Harry, he rolls his eyes. Fuck _him_ , honestly. Too busy for his own fucking husband, he can piss off.

Louis’ heart clenches sadly at the thought. He’s splitting, he knows it, but he can’t fucking stop it and it’s killing him. Harry has probably been ringing his phone all day, is probably so worried about him. He’d heard the phone chiming somewhere in the room, but he physically couldn’t make himself get up to get it.

_He’s not worried. He’s busy, doing something more important than talking to your loser arse._

He accepts the self-depreciating thought and hauls himself _and_ the heavy duvet to the kitchen. The ends of it are pulling it on the floor behind him but he hardly pays it any mind. Harry would be fine without him. He was fine not talking to him yesterday, he should be ok now.

He considers his friends and family instead, those of them who text him every day. He wonders how many of them have noticed that he’s gone off the rails again. He doesn’t want to think about the hundreds, maybe even thousands of messages from them, from group chats, the notifications from Twitter, Instagram, Tumblr, the _emails_ from fucking management and labels and whoever else. He doesn’t want to have to deal with any of it, ever.

He _can’t_ make himself seem okay enough to correspond or maintain conversations with anyone, and he refuses to let anyone know he’s _not_ okay, so not answering his phone continues to seem like the best option. He only hopes that Harry or anyone else trying to get him doesn’t worry about him as he stands from the bed, wrapping the whole duvet around his body and throwing it over his head like a cloak.

 _No one is fucking worried_ , his mind reminds him, once again against Louis’ own will. _If anyone was worried, they’d come to see if you were doing okay._

The aggressively intrusive thought makes Louis shudder, gooseflesh erupting over his arms. It’s right, though; that much he can say.

He can only manage to make himself a bland egg toastie and force it down with a can of Red Bull that makes his tummy churn angrily, before he returns to the bed room.

As soon as he enters it, he picks up the unmistakable scent of sweat and musk that makes him realise that it’s been a while since he’s showered- maybe three days, maybe more, but he only falls back into the bed, pulling the duvet tighter around him.

 

He, by some miracle, manages to fall asleep like that, and is awoken however long after by the incessant sound of his phone. He still doesn’t know where exactly it is but it’s clearly closer than he thought, if how loud it is is anything to go by. He has no intention whatsoever of looking for or answering it, livid that his sleep has been disturbed.

The phone stops ringing, a few seconds pass, then it’s back to the jarring trilling sound. Louis fists his hair and growls, flinging himself into a sitting position to glare angrily in the direction of where he assumes the phone is. It stops ringing again, and Louis hopes with everything in him that it won’t start again, but, of course, it does.

Louis takes a deep breath in, holds it, lets it out. Stands.

He follows the sound of the phone to the corner of the room, glancing around half-heartedly, fully expecting to find a shattered screen and maybe a few missing buttons.

The phone’s dropped between two mismatched feet of trainers, and he pouts when he picks it up and finds it still perfectly functional, nothing broken. He’d wanted an excuse not to answer.

He almost throws the phone again when he sees who’s been calling.

“What, Harry?” he asks as soon as he accepts the call, the end of his question falling flat with bemusement.

Harry doesn’t say anything for a while, and Louis’ about to hang up before he finally whispers, “Thank _fuck_ you’re okay.”

Louis’ hardly _okay_ , but he’s alive, and Harry doesn’t need to say that for him to know that’s what he means.

“Yes, I’m peachy. What’d’you w-” He retorts, but Harry cuts off his question, quite rudely might he add.

“I’m coming home. I’m on my way to the airport. ’m comin’ home to you.”

And, oh. _Oh_.

“Oh,” Louis voices, because it’s the only thing he can say. He _misses_ Harry, knows that if he was here, he wouldn’t be feeling the way he has been for weeks now, but he’s still mad at him. Would probably punch him if he was here.

(He’d never hurt Harry. He’d quicker hurt himself than the love of his life. Even if he hates him.)

Louis realises belatedly that Harry’s been speaking, relaying all his flight details. Louis started dissociating the second Harry had said _home_ and now he can’t stop. His sight is a little fuzzy at the edges, and he can’t quite feel his legs. He’s hearing the words Harry are saying, sort of, but he can’t fucking understand them.

“Yeah, okay.” Louis says, voice sounding foreign in his own ears and he shakes his head. Harry might have been in the middle of a sentence, Louis doesn’t _know_ , but he stops speaking when he hears how Louis sounds.

Louis dissociates enough that Harry knows exactly what to do, though.

“Lou,”

Louis hums flippantly, running his hand over his bare stomach and wondering why he can hardly feel it.

“Louis, focus. Come on.”

Louis blinks and some of the fog clears.

“Yeah, yeah. I’m- I’m back. ‘m good.” He isn’t, but he’s coming back, his cheeks flushing. Harry knows how embarrassed he gets when he spaces out so he doesn’t say anything else about it, expertly switching the conversation back to himself. He tells Louis that he’ll be back by early tomorrow morning the latest, and Louis pulls the phone away from his face to check the time when he realises he still doesn’t know what part of the day he’s at.

_17.12_

Oh. The blinds are still closed, and so are all the windows in the house, so he hasn’t been exactly able to see the sun rising (and setting.) He, however, doesn’t find it surprising that he’s wasted almost a full day wallowing in his own self-loathing. Now he feels pathetic _and_ worthless.

He starts slipping again, but he forces himself back as Harry tells him that he’s just got to the airport. He informs him that he has to check in and he’ll talk to him soon, or maybe not, he’s not sure. He’s sure to tell Louis he loves him before they hang up, and it’s after the phone screen goes dark that he realises Harry never asked him why he’d been avoiding him. Louis wouldn’t have been able to give him a good reason because there _isn’t_ one, he knows that now, and he’s so grateful that Harry knows him as well as he does.

Louis _loves_ him.

The thought instantly starts to brighten his mood, and he pulls his dirty underwear down off his legs and heads straight to the shower, playing the “HAPPY mix” playlist off his phone.

(He has a playlist for all of his moods.)

 

True to his word, Harry’s home by midnight and Louis nearly knocks him over when he runs to hug him.

“ _ImissedyouIloveyouIloveyousomuchIloveyou_.” He rushes, pressing kisses all over Harry’s face and literally trying to crawl on to him where they’re still standing. Harry has to drop everything he’s holding to hoist the smaller man up and into his arms, to prevent him from hurting one of them. Louis’ smiling so wide his face hurts and he’s bouncing in Harry’s grip and he loves him.

“Please, never leave me ever again.” Louis sighs, tucking his face into Harry’s neck, and Harry laughs.

“Never, Lou.”

 

When Louis wakes the next morning, he finds himself almost completely under Harry. He’d asked to be little spoon last night, needing to be wrapped all up in his boy this one night, and Harry obliged. Now, he’s completely submerged in him and he can’t breathe.

“Harry,” Louis tries, but he registers Harry’s light snores coming from somewhere behind his head and knows that he’s fast asleep still.

“Harry _ge’off_.” Louis pushes his back up, trying to roll Harry off him, but he’s six foot however much kilos of dead fucking weight and Louis needs _out_.

He’s getting frantic now, not really panicking but definitely not completely calm. His skin is itching at every point of contact between their bodies. He needs Harry to stop touching him. He can’t-

“Fuck!” he groans, and pushes up with one last distraught spike of strength, and he manages to get Harry half-way off. He scrambles the rest of the way from under him, jumping out the bed to put as much distance between them as possible. He huffs when he realises that Harry hasn’t even budged, still sprawled haphazardly across the bed and still _sleeping_. He has the urge to wake him, but he doesn’t; he just turns to the bathroom and goes in to wash the sleep off his face and start the day.

He hears Harry start to come to when he’s just through brushing his teeth, rinsing his mouth out with a cup of water. The few minutes he’d spent alone had somehow reverted his mood back to what it was last night: giddy, excited, and clingy as fuck.

He barely finishes washing before he’s padding back into the bedroom, finding Harry sitting up in the bed and thumbing through Louis’ phone. Louis pays it no mind and climbs into Harry’s lap, kissing him on the mouth despite the smell of his morning breath wafting up to him.

“G’morning, baby.” Harry greets, setting the phone down to wrap his long arms around Louis’ waist. Louis hums and settles heavier against him, rutting against Harry’s naked cock lazily. He doesn’t think he wants to fuck, but he might soon, he’s not sure. Regardless, Harry doesn’t advance it, letting Louis rock against him and kiss him.

They do eventually fuck, slow and sweet in the soft morning glow, Louis holding Harry’s hands above his head as he’d pushed into him. There were whispered vows and declarations, Louis apologising for being a mess and Harry kissing him to shut him up. They’d come pressed against each other, Harry’s cock spurting between their bodies and Louis releasing deep into him.

 

Harry gets them to shower together and go out. Louis had started to complain at the concept of leaving the house, but Harry had bribed him with cheesecake, and of course, he couldn’t deny that.

They go to one of the few places they know they’re safe at: a private _private_ beach for only A-listers where no paparazzi are allowed anywhere near it. They have fun, they hold hands and kiss and act like a proper couple and it makes Louis so happy he doesn’t know what to do with himself. He and Harry fuck around in the water at the beach, splashing each other and Harry carries him on his back when they’re done so he doesn’t get sand on his feet, and Louis’ honestly so happy and in love.

And he stays that way until they’re on their way to a restaurant owned by a family friend of Louis’. He goes quiet in the passenger seat of the Range and curls into himself, pulling out his phone to finally check all his mounting notifications, but he starts dissociating as soon as he takes in just how _much_ there are.

He unlocks the phone, sits and stares at it for a while before the screen fades back down to black, unlocks it again. He does it at least twenty times without realising, only stopping when Harry sets a hand over his.

“We’re here.” Harry says softly, and Louis looks up to find them parked in front of the posh restaurant.

“Lemme just get meself to stop fuckin’ spacing, then we can go in.” Louis tells him, frustrated with himself in an absent way that he can’t control his own mind from disconnecting. He starts doing the technique his doctor taught him, quietly naming five things he can see, four things he can hear, three he can- _Fuck_. He stops, because he can’t fucking remember the other two senses he’s supposed to use. He throws his head back against the headrest angrily.

“Hey, ’s okay.” Harry consoles, and pulls Louis’ hands apart. Louis realises he had started scratching the back of his hand raw. “We can go home, if you need to.”

“No,” Louis rushes out, “I wan’ me cheesecake.”

Harry laughs and the pealing sound pulls Louis up a bit, enough that remembers the last two senses. He finishes up and feels himself come all the way back, exhaling through his nose.

“Okay. Let’s go.”

 

“Maybe you should do X Factor,”

Louis’ head flies up at the sound of Harry’s voice. He’d started to get back into a good mood as soon as they sat in their booth, bantering with Harry across the table and stealing bits of shrimp off his plate. They’d made it through the whole dinner without a hitch, Louis was just starting to dig in to his well-awaited cheesecake, happily shovelling the treat into his mouth. They’d gone mutually quiet, just enjoying each other’s presence after so long apart, and Louis was content. Now, though, he’s overcome with a sudden blinding rage at Harry’s suggestion, but he tamps it down as best as he can. Harry doesn’t say anything after that, so much so that Louis thinks he’s imagined it, so he tentatively goes to take another forkful of his desert. But, Harry speaks again.

“I know we said it would be rubbish but, Lou, bein’ home every day isn’t good for you.”

“Aye, because _you_ know wha’s good f’r me,” Louis snaps, pointing his desert fork at Harry, and he regrets it as soon as he’s said it because yes, he does know what’s best for him. More than Louis himself knows, most days. Harry regards him with a sad look that makes Louis want to stab him with the fork.

Harry pretends like he doesn’t hear him, knowing that Louis isn’t serious.

“You wouldn’t even have to do that specific thing. You’ve had opportunities and offers lining up. I saw ‘em when I checked your email.” Louis ignores him, going back to eating. “Babe, you have to do something.”

“I don’t want to do _anything_.” Louis near shouts, dropping his fork noisily on his plate, but Harry only blinks over at him. Louis growls and throws himself back into his chair, bringing his hands up to his face and pressing into them with some absent hope that his breathing will be cut off enough that he’ll just fucking die. He’s so _tired_ , overwhelmed by literally nothing and that in itself is so frustrating.

“I don’ wanna do anythin’,” Louis says again, quieter this time, his voice muffled by his palms. “I don’t feel like I _can_ do anything.”

Harry must reach all the way over the top of the table because Louis feels one of his big hands over his own, pulling them away from his face and setting them on the table, holding on to the right one and twining their fingers together.

“You can, love. You’d be so good at it, at mentoring the youngins like we were. You’d do it even _better_.” Harry tells him, and Louis feels his stupid eyes welling up with stupid tears. “You’d be better than anyone there ‘cause you’ave experience. You’re mature and you give good advice. You can definitely do this.”

Louis sniffs, holding his head back to keep his tears where they are because he’ll _not_ be crying today, thanks. Harry squeezes his hand and he squeezes back weakly, sighing.

“Yeah. Yeah, okay.”

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry if that was overly confusing and had a lot of errors. I honestly just needed to put this out, raw as ever.This is also just what _I've_ been experiencing, how I've been feeling, and these specific symptoms aren't experienced by every one with BPD. When I do these with messy endings I deliberately do it bc mental illnesses are awfully romanticised and they really shouldn’t be, so I’m giving you the raw reality of it. Like I said, I wanted to write Zayn and Liam but there was too much history and back story and emotions there and I couldn’t bother looool.


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